


Challenge accepted

by wolfrider89 (rustypeopleskillz)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 20:52:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustypeopleskillz/pseuds/wolfrider89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the middle of the night and their neighbors are at it again. Misha decides that the only way to respond is to be louder than they are. Jensen is surprisingly OK with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Challenge accepted

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted on my LJ. Written for the [50 reasons to have sex](http://misslucyjane.livejournal.com/2935013.html) challenge for reason 33 - Keeping up with the neighbors. 
> 
> Dedicated to [dodger_sister](http://dodger-sister.livejournal.com/) who is awesome and whom I love.

Jensen floats back to consciousness slowly, unsure of what woke him. He frowns, not willing to open his eyes and try to find out. He presses his cheek harder against the pillow in an attempt to stave off wakefulness. He just wants to sleep again. The muffled, far-away sound of a moan makes his eyes shoot open, though, his scowl deepening. The first thing he sees in the semi-darkness of the bedroom is Misha, who’s glaring at the ceiling.

“Oh, c’mon, _again?”_ Jensen groans, his voice sleep-rough and low. He blinks, trying to force his eyes to stay open.

Misha doesn’t seem surprised that he’s speaking, but then again, he has a knack for knowing when Jensen is awake. He just nods and keeps glaring up at their whitewashed ceiling, looking a bit too adorable to handle this late at night, his hair mussed by his pillow and the covers pulled up to his chin like some sort of shield. Jensen finds it slightly easier to keep his eyes open.

“They’re making me feel old for wanting to get a good night’s sleep,” Misha grumbles, burrowing in even further under the covers. “It’s—” He’s interrupted by a loud whimper from upstairs, clearly audible through the concrete and plaster, and then an unmistakable, rhythmic thumping starts up, and he throws the covers off. “Oh, that’s _it!”_ he exclaims, and Jensen barely has time to feel the cold draft along his side where he’s now exposed to the bedroom air before Misha is on top of him, pulling the covers off Jensen completely and bunching them at their feet. His weight presses Jensen down into the mattress. “Let’s show those youngsters how it’s done, shall we?” He grins, half joke and half challenge.

Jensen is still a bit sleep-addled, not to mention suddenly cold, but he snorts and grips Misha by the hips on instinct. The heat of his skin against Jensen's sends Jensen's blood rushing, swiftly burning the fatigue out of his body. Misha has that effect on him.

“You know, calling me old doesn’t really motivate me to go along with your evil plan,” he teases, but his hands belie his words as his grip tightens and pulls Misha closer, groin against groin.

“You saying you’re not up for it, Ackles?”

Instead of answering, Jensen spreads his legs so Misha sinks down between them, and grabs Misha by the back of his head with both his hands to kiss the smirk right off his lips.

Kissing Misha is one of Jensen’s favorite things. No matter what he’s doing, he’ll always take a break if Misha wants to kiss him, and over the years he’s learned exactly how to kiss to make Misha moan and pant with just a few well-practiced moves. He puts that considerable experience to use now, twining his fingers into Misha’s hair. Misha loves getting his hair pulled, always has, even now that it's turning gray at the temples. It's a good thing Jensen loves it just as much.

Jensen lets his hands travel down over Misha’s body, covering the canvas of skin just waiting to be touched. Unerringly, they find their way back to Misha’s hips. Misha’s hips are so sharp Jensen sometimes wonders how he hasn’t cut himself on them yet. They jut out, especially when he stretches and arches into Jensen’s touch, skin stretched over hard bone, begging for Jensen’s thumbs to smooth over them again and again.

Misha shudders above him, makes a sound of need almost unheard in the quiet room, and then he thrusts down, a long, slow slide of cock against hard cock, skin and friction and pleasure in one move. It’s enough to make Jensen _want,_ want with a sudden stutter of his breathing, a quickening of his pulse, a throb in his cock. He presses his fingers into Misha’s skin, nails too blunt to harm but not to be felt, thumbs catching on hips, and then he rolls them over in a move so effortless it demonstrates years of practice.

Misha goes without protest, putting away his self-proclaimed obstinacy and letting Jensen lead and take and give. Jensen loves how he’s the only one who Misha lets go with, who gets to see him like this, vulnerable and wanting. Their cocks slide together again, wetter this time, more pre-come to slick the way. Jensen could happily go on just like this until they’re both spent and satisfied, but that isn’t the point tonight. No, tonight he has to make Misha _loud._

He finds the lube in the bedside drawer as easily as he would his reading glasses or his phone, unerring movements speaking of repetition, familiarity. The tube is cold in his hand, the plastic a little rough to prevent it from slipping. He stops kissing Misha, pulls back to the sound of slick lips parting, of gasping gulps of air. Years in and they still forget to breathe when they kiss. Jensen hopes that never changes.

Misha’s eyes are black in the semi-darkness, zeroed in on Jensen’s face, unblinking and surprisingly calm. There’s no desperation here, no rough rush to completion. That, of course, doesn’t mean that they aren’t _needy,_ that they don’t crave this. Just that they know they’re gonna get there, the surety in Misha’s eyes mirroring the surety in Jensen’s chest, in his guts. It’s safety, this thing between them.

Misha’s knees are bent now, legs wide apart, a show of trust and flexibility that has Jensen’s heart hammering a little faster as he sits back. His right hand, the unoccupied one, thumbs at Misha’s hip again, sliding a trail over the soft, thin skin, all the way down to his thigh, a tease of touch that has Misha biting his lip, trying to stifle a moan.

“You’re supposed to make noise, remember?” Jensen scolds, gives Misha another sweep with his thumb, this time rewarded with a rumbling moan, impatient and loud.

“Then give me something to make noise about,” Misha says, challenge in his voice now, and Jensen feels his lips tug up, knows he’s smirking. He pulls his hand away, pops the tube of lube open with a _snikt_ and coats his fingers, taking his time to warm it up. Misha hates cold lube.

Misha is exposed like this, sensitive skin revealed for Jensen to touch as much as he likes. He kneels on their bed, covers wrinkled and bunched around his ankles, breath loud until it’s drowned out by another moan from upstairs. It’s what spurs him on, makes him grip Misha’s shin with his clean hand, steadying them both as he trails the fingers of his other hand over Misha’s cock, his balls, down to where Misha wants him, skin soft and warm, almost too warm.

The first push in is one of Jensen’s favorite parts. The tight cling of muscle, the breathy noises of pleasure, the silken heat of skin, the way Misha always, always pushes back like it’s not enough. Jensen grips Misha’s shin tighter, bites his lip, wants nothing more than to lean down and taste. So he does.

Still with his finger inside, he sweeps his tongue over Misha’s perineum, down to where he’s clutching at Jensen. He tastes like chemicals masquerading as strawberries, but it’s a flavor Jensen associates with sex and he can’t help the moan that escapes him. It’s echoed by Misha, louder, longer, needier, because Misha loves when Jensen does this, when Jensen’s tongue slicks against him like this. When Jensen forces his tongue in alongside his finger, Misha lets out an even louder noise, high pitched and piecing. It makes Jensen smile triumphantly, his tongue withdrawing for a moment only to shoot forward again, setting up a rhythm.

He’s sweating now, arousal making him hot, the air against his skin chilly in comparison. He fucks Misha with his tongue, in and out, in and out, until his jaw muscles feel worn, overheated like an old car engine. Misha is scrabbling for purchase, movements frantic, his hips moving in waves in time with Jensen’s thrusts. He draws back, swallows, works his jaw, and watches as Misha’s eyelids wrinkle with the force he’s using to shut his eyes. The sounds he’s making now are unrestrained, like he’s forgotten all about the hour, where they are, even why they started this in the first place. Jensen takes it as a compliment.

There’s lube on his face, and he lets go of Misha’s shin to wipe it off, his fingers rough over his own lips. It makes him want to kiss Misha, feel the vibrations of his moans against his lips, breathe in the sounds he makes. So he does. He leans over, two fingers now easily slipping in and out, and captures hot, damp lips with his own. Misha jerks in surprise, clearly not expecting Jensen there, and then one of his hands is at the back of Jensen’s head, holding him in place as his tongue invades Jensen’s mouth, fucking in and out in an imitation of what Jensen did to him seconds ago.

They’re not being loud, but Jensen doesn’t care, can’t care with Misha sliding against his skin, Misha’s tongue inside his mouth, his fingers inside Misha. Everything is Misha, every smell, taste, sound, and feeling, down to the sheets under them. Misha taught Jensen how to use fabric softener, way back when they first moved in together, and now Misha is all he can think about when he feels their silky sheets against his skin. Their lives are entwined, like trees growing around each other, and Jensen doesn’t think he could even stand up without Misha. He doesn’t ever want to find out.

Jensen is up to three fingers now, slickness on his skin, inside Misha, the telltale squelch filling the space between them. Misha is biting at his lips, his tongue, nips of pain and pleasure that travel through Jensen like race cars on the track, too fast, dangerous and exhilarating.

“You ready?” Jensen pants against Misha’s mouth. They’ve forgotten to breathe again, and Jensen’s head is spinning a little like he’s just gone on a carnival ride.

Misha nods, his lips dragging against Jensen’s, his chest heaving, dragging in lungfuls of air. Jensen kisses him again, just because he can, and then fumbles his fingers out, slicks his cock up without breaking away from Misha. He does pull back when he nudges against Misha’s slightly swollen opening, watching Misha’s eyes slowly focus on his, camera lenses adjusting and adjusting again until the zoom is just right, and then he pushes forward.

It always feels too tight at first, like someone is squeezing him with a fist that doesn’t know the difference between pain and pleasure, but it always passes within seconds as Misha lets him in, and then it’s just a slick slide until there’s nothing more to give, and Misha’s mouth has fallen open on a soft gasp. His eyes haven’t left Jensen’s for a second, his face open and unguarded, just for Jensen. It makes it hard to breathe, the air too thick, his lungs fighting just to get it inside, and then Jensen relaxes, lets Misha see just as much on his own face.

He goes slow at first, a rolling wave of motion that has them both gasping, and then Misha is showing off his flexibility by bending himself in half, his knees going over Jensen’s shoulders.

“We’re supposed to be loud, remember?” he says, more air than sound forming his words. It makes Jensen grin and slam forward, angling it just right, and Misha lets out a whine, throwing his head back but not breaking eye contact.

Jensen loves it when they do it like this, face to face, eyes locked. He’d never had that before Misha, never dared to be that close, to show so much of himself. Now, though, he can’t look away, the icy-sharp focus of Misha’s eyes holding his captive.

He slams forward with his hips, a sharp slap of skin against skin, setting up a rhythm that he knows will have Misha breaking under him in no time at all. His cock slips in and out, the slick sound of it sliding against Misha’s rim lost in the grunts and groans they’re both making. Misha’s pupils are eating more and more of his irises, and Jensen knows his can’t be much better. Everything about Misha’s face is clear to hims in spite of the darkness, and Jensen bends forward, folding Misha up a bit more just to get closer.

The change of angle makes Misha throw his head back and close his eyes for a second, the white flash of his teeth biting into his soft lower lip, and then his eyes are back on Jensen.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands releasing the sheets he’s been clutching and coming up to grab at Jensen’s hips, his ass, urging him on. “Like that. Yeah, like that.”

Jensen grins and keeps fucking, his hips keeping the angle just right, sweat running down his back making Misha’s fingers slip on his skin. Every time the head of his cock drags against Misha’s prostate, Misha lets out a high-pitched moan. It sounds like he’s in pain, but Jensen knows better, knows all the sounds Misha makes when he’s lost in pleasure. Knows he can get him to be even louder.

“Gonna make you scream,” he confides, his own voice sounding like it’s been dragged over gravel and then run through a wood chipper: rough and splintered. Misha nods, swallowing around a keen as Jensen slams his hips in and then stays there, grinding against Misha’s prostate in a continuous drag. At the same time, he lets one of Misha’s legs slip down his arm and hooks it around his waist instead.

Misha is already letting out curses loud enough to be heard through walls, but when Jensen pushes his thumb against Misha’s rim and holds it there, teasing him with more, making him even fuller, Misha _shouts._

“ _Yes,_ fuck, yes, Jensen, c’mon!” he yells, chest heaving, eyes wide and dark, and Jensen feels like he’s been squeezed until all the air left his lungs because Misha is just _too fucking hot._ He presses his thumb in, feeling slick lube and heat as Misha clenches tighter around his cock, his hips jerking like he can’t decide whether to chase the sensation or draw back from it.

Misha keeps yelling, but there are no words now, just vowels mixed with consonants into a messy gibberish of pleasure. Jensen starts fucking him again, feeling his orgasm rushing towards him, some unstoppable force that will swallow him whole once it reaches him. He’s not gonna come before Misha, though.

“C’mon Misha,” he growls, just loud enough to be heard over the noises Misha is making. “Come for me.”

And Misha does.

His spine arches up, snapping his ass up in a thrust that has Jensen’s eyes rolling up into his skull for a second, and then Misha’s cock is spurting, thick white strands of come landing on his stomach, on Jensen’s, on their sheets. Misha’s eyes are closed, a frown of pleasure wrinkling the skin between his eyes, his mouth open as he lets out the most delicious of sounds.

It’s the sight of him more than anything else that has Jensen’s orgasm overtaking him, freezing his muscles and frying his synapses, overwhelming him. He lets out a shout of his own, his voice blending with Misha’s before they both fall silent, gasping for breath and shuddering almost in unison.

Jensen finds himself sprawled on top of Misha, his face buried in his neck, without any memory of how he got there. Misha’s arms are tight around his back, pulling him even closer, and Jensen just lies there and breathes for a while. Their skin is sticky with sweat and come, their sheets are wrinkled beyond recognition, Jensen is pretty sure they woke up the entire building with the noise, and everything is totally fucking perfect.

He shifts a little, slipping out of Misha but otherwise making no move to rearrange them, and presses a kiss to the skin of Misha’s neck.

“Wake me up if you can’t breathe, OK?” he murmurs, sleep ready to claim his relaxed body.

“Mm-hmm,” Misha murmurs, his legs sliding down the outside of Jensen’s as he straighten them out.

Around them, the building is quiet, and Jensen falls asleep thinking he’s pretty sure they won this round.

****

Jensen’s eyes feel itchy, like someone has poured sand in them right before he woke up, but he can’t keep a smile off his face all the same. He and Misha are waiting for the elevator, Misha’s arm warm against his where they stand. Through some miracle, they didn’t oversleep, but Jensen discovers he’s somehow forgotten to shave when he drags a hand over his face, trying to wake up. Misha eyes the scruff appreciatively, giving Jensen one of his rarest smiles, the one only Jensen and a handful of other people ever gets to see. He looks just as tired as Jensen feels, with dark circles under his eyes and his back a bit slumped like he can’t be bothered to keep his spine straight, but there’s no denying the contentment in his eyes.

The elevator pings, interrupting Jensen’s contemplation of Misha’s face, and Jensen steps forward only to stop dead, his face warming and no doubt turning a humiliating shade of red. Inside the elevator are their upstairs neighbors, fingers entwined, eyes tired but faces flushed and happy. He avoids their gazes as he steps in, but he sees Misha smirking out of the corner of his eye.

“Good morning,” Misha says cheerfully, scratching his neck so that his shirt collar temporarily fails to cover the hickey Jensen gave him last night. This morning. Whenever it was. Jensen is gratified to see that he isn’t the only one blushing when he glances at the couple in the elevator mirror.

It makes for a pretty awkward elevator ride. Well, everyone besides Misha is awkward. Misha is just amused, shooting Jensen humor-filled looks every few seconds. God, he’s shameless.

When the elevator comes to a stop at the ground floor and their neighbors exit without meeting either of their eyes, Misha salutes them and sneaks an arm around Jensen’s waist.

“Til next time,” he says, and the challenge in his voice is unmistakable. Jensen snorts and winds his arm around Misha in return, and the doors close for the elevator to take them down to the garage. He’s going to need an extra cup of coffee in the morning if this is going to become a _thing,_ and knowing Misha, it is.

Oddly enough, Jensen doesn’t mind one bit.


End file.
